Dance of the Ages
by Alatariel Narmolanya
Summary: She has to do it. It is her honor. She could, would, and should take revenge of the son of the one who has destroyed her family and her lands. But even the strongest wills can be bended, and the coldest of hearts can be melted.
1. Part One: Dawn

**Dance of the Ages **

Part One - Dawn

Part Two - Twilight

Part Three - Dusk

the being

in a village a fire  
ran out villagers did  
not know why or how but they ran out out  
of their houses into the roads  
they were afraid and they shouted screaming  
for help because their houses were burning  
and some ran into the woods but  
most just shouted screaming  
for help and some wept for the losses but  
they were not losses at all  
because houses can be always rebuilt  
and villages they can always be  
stood up once again  
but one person did not run  
rather he stood and he just stared at the flames  
his face was expressionless or so  
it seemed but  
a deeper light just lay in his eyes of  
the ocean he was always just there  
just there he stood and the villagers only watched  
they dared not go near the flames the hot flames  
nobody knew who he had been when  
he had been young when he had been carefree like a bird  
but now his face was hard and so cold like  
ice it just seemed so cold and so hard and  
different the villagers ignored him  
but he did not seem to care save  
the sad light in his ocean eyes but  
nobody seemed to notice him and he was known as the being  
the being who nobody knew and nobody cared  
yet he could remember soft warmth of his family  
if his family had actually been there  
and he didn't know how or why  
but something struck him the fires did  
and he just stood there  
the being stood there  
and he did not heed any  
warnings or shouts  
the villagers made  
but rather he listened to the wind  
and the fire that licked  
the houses in the village  
and he listened to the earth who  
whispered to him about  
lands beyond and  
listening listening to all the stars  
and the bowstring would be loosened the arrow  
would fly and the hunter would become the hunted  
the villagers tried to warn him but  
he did not listen  
he only listened to the wind and the flame and the earth  
and far away he could  
hear the ocean  
the ocean which sang to him and  
brought light to his eyes  
and he let himself go into another world  
the villagers watched and they were  
afraid afraid what the being was doing and what  
was being done to him but they  
did not go near him they were too afraid of the  
flames and they rather stuck together like  
bees in a hive and they  
watched the houses being burnt and  
some of the animals getting killed and  
some cried and some wept and some faces were wet  
with tears but they did not understand  
they were not true losses even  
if some lives had been lost  
because they were always together and  
had memories to share during  
hard times  
and the houses were just houses and  
farms were just farms  
with time they could always spring up again although  
they were not the same  
but the villagers desired for sameness it seemed  
the safety that sameness brought so  
maybe that was why they were so  
afraid of the being because the being was so different  
from them  
and the being just stood and let himself go  
the villagers just watched their possessions being burned  
doing nothing although  
some tried to save them and ended being burnt yet they did  
not die because they were saved by the others who were  
the same as them  
but did they not understand they  
were not true losses in the world  
did they not understand that things were just things  
that time always went on and everything will fade  
into the shadows of time the mist will  
cover them but it will be a happy silence  
but they do not understand so they  
just weep for the small things life brings them and  
the being does not understand  
he understands the true losses but at the same  
time he is afraid and he desires to be  
the same but he cannot so he does not  
and the villagers just stand there weeping  
for small losses which life brings them every so often  
and they can be replaced and still will be the same  
oh do they not understand  
the wind and the fire and the earth and the water  
and light and darkness and life and death  
they just do not heed the things and when one life is quenched  
they just weep with sorrow  
but they also weep with fear of what may come  
death may come to them so they are afraid  
but do they not understand they should celebrate instead  
celebrate and remember the memories of the one who  
passed away over the flame and the earth and the wind and the ocean  
and met light and darkness and the shadows in between  
do they not understand that in the end everything is different  
and nothing  
is the same do they not  
no they do not yet a small part of them still does  
but it is too small so they only weep  
they only remember a shadow of  
the true losses they have lost forever  
and they only live the brief lives that they do  
like a candles flame and a breeze in the air  
and the being he cries he cries for the people  
who cannot understand and he listens to the wind  
and the flame and the wind  
and the ocean and he cries and he weeps  
for all the people who cannot understand the true  
losses and the true rewards of life and death  
and the villagers shout and they scream with fear but they  
do not understand but pain is pain  
and that they do understand  
but everything is so different in life and  
life is neither good nor bad  
they only have to make what they have and  
they have to make the bad or good  
but people they faded into the shadows  
and they desire sameness they do not  
understand they do not  
desire brief beauty like a moth  
to a flame but they just live and they die and they  
face joy and face pain  
and the being understands but he does not understand  
and he cries and he weeps for all the people who cannot  
understand and  
he looks at the flame and the earth  
and the air and the ocean  
his eyes are filled with a deeper light  
that people cannot understand and he cannot understand  
it himself but a part of him does  
and he remembers all the joy  
humans had before they too fell into the shadows  
and before they had desired the sameness and safety  
they do not understand he thinks and yet they do so  
more than me why must I stand in the between  
where the light meets the dark and the shadows  
diverge into the fire  
life is more than life and death is more than death  
and we have lost the true losses that burns like the flame  
and cools like the ice and I must feel it all  
by myself and I am afraid but I must stand  
do they not understand that true beauty  
is only so brief and so everlasting  
so less and so more than themselves  
things are just things and they  
only stand for a brief period of time  
and they must fade and they must be destroyed by  
heavy time  
but do they not see that true losses  
will be there ever and true beauty is so brief  
like a moth to a flame the moth  
burns itself for true beauty and  
even as it does not live long it becomes part of the beauty  
and it lives forever and yet its life  
is so brief oh why  
must I bear the pain of the past  
and the present and the future and I stand here alone  
I am the different one and they must still stay the same  
until they realize they are  
the part of the pattern which is still weaving itself on  
and on until time ends  
but will time end  
true losses are so beautiful and  
true beauty is so short and so long  
why must humans suffer like  
no beast even a moth has a better  
life than one  
humans are wise but they are  
also foolish for they  
belive true beauty is not what  
it is and they go looking for something  
else they cannot grab like  
a rainbow and they just walk on and on and on  
but is that not true beauty also  
only God knows what true beauty is  
and to understand true beauty i must fall  
into it myself and i will find the true losses and will  
lose them again but i do not care  
for i will become part of the everlasting and so short  
a beauty for it is true beauty and i will be true  
and i can remember the soft warmth and i have  
lived long harsh years and i cannot bear it  
the humans do not understand  
they just scream and shout in fear  
and they weep for the longings they had and they lost  
but is that not also true beauty also he  
asks and his eyes are so misted and a silver  
tear drops from his cheek  
but he has stopped weeping  
he cannot understand but at least he is  
willing to discover and to find and to lose and to die  
and to live and to weep for all the true losses people have lost  
he wonders so briefly if God is true beauty and he knows that He is  
for He is so everlasting and so short in His time  
and he ignores the shouts and screams of the people  
the people who is a part of the pattern  
the pattern which must bring so much suffer and so much pain  
he hears the cries but he does not weep  
although he bores the scars of them all  
and the scars run deep against his heart  
but he does not cry and instead he smiles  
and silently he falls into the flames

-jiyeon koh

_Author's Note: About the poem... Yes, I've got it posted everywhere, sorry. But I wrote it without thinking of anything, then decided that it should specifically used for a song in Dance of the Ages. (It is also posted on Dusty Parchments -- a collection of original poems -- and on its own, The Being.) The poem/song plays an important part in the story afterwards. Thanks. And this poem was written purposefully to ignore almost all correct punctuation. Alright, back to the story now._


	2. Chapter One: Last Flame

Chapter One - Last Flame 

_Hope is nature's veil for hiding truth's nakedness._

--Alfred Bernhard Nobel

In the Southern deserts of Arda, a girl walked back from her scoutings, alone and silently. Scouting for any Enemies or a valuable sight was a duty that was passed around wordlessly, and it had been her day to do the job. She had spotted nothing, and she proceeded to go back.

The girl was strange, even among her own kin. Haradrim by appearence, she had cat-like grace that somehow seemed frighting, yet rather fitting, despite her small body. She was dressed in the red-black war clothes that a proper Haradrim warrior wore: it seemed to be a part of her. Three visible weapons lay by her side; her sword, scimitar, and most valued of all, her glaive. If only this was to be seen she could have passed for a normal adolscent training for a warriorhood, but she was -- damaged. It was her left arm that troubled her, for she had been born with a fault. She had been teased and harrased, cast away and joined in again, and she had toughened over her sun-years.

She stopped suddenly as she caught sight of her campsite. Rather, what had remained of it.

Her eyes blazed with fire: fire both of her heart and the reflection of her home. She dumbly stood there as the scarlet waves engulfed, drowned the tents, camps, and the people into ashes. Even as she stood the smoke was getting lighter; a sign that the fire was easing up, and she walked around the campsite, devoid of any feelings except for bewilderment. She purposefully toughened her heart. She would not let any tears show or fall... It was in the training of the Haradrim.

She couldn't understand what had taken place. Her family and others had been traveling northeast to walk under the Dark Eye's order. The Dark Eye was growing stronger than it had been in the past; and the crones of the clans predicted war and success and riches for them all, if they went under the Dark Eye's rule and won the battles. Riches were needed badly among the Haradrim. The Lords of Umbar demanded more and more from the clans each day, and riches would buy power. The Haradrim were not meant to stay down like desert rats; coming up only at night. They would control the whole lands, someday, even beyond the White City, even the green places where strange, bigger trees grew with flat, crinkling emeralds on their arms. Even the shores by the wide blue-lakes that were told to be stretched into the end of the world.

Every one of the company was -- had been -- trained to a long extent; indeed, they were the Haradrims' best warriors. There had been seventy in the company, or so, most of them hardy veterans in the art of war, a few of them adolescents who had showed great promise in fighting. She had been one of them: she fought like a lioness with her glaive and sword. They had not had any Mumakil -- the war Oliphaunts -- with them, as they would slow down the journey slightly. However, even the smallest of delays could trigger things into motion that the Haradrim would not want. Such as the wrath of the Dark Eye or another skirmish, for instance.

So how had the fire managed to get them all? Fires weren't common in the desert or sparse grasslands where they dwelled. They were used sometimes, in great celebrations of some sorts, but only then, and in councils.

She thought hard. They had no oil lamps to go by at night, preferring to use their night vision and the five senses. Thus accidentally spilling fire on the cloth tents would not be an option. Anyway, if it had been an accidental fire that had caused this destruction, chances would be that the others would have not noticed it until it was too big to quench. That was slim, as every Haradrim knew the signs of fire and could escape it, if not extinguish it. Fire was greatly dealt with.

So that would mean that somebody -- an Enemy, a troop -- had caused this. But whom? She briefly was reminded of enemy individualists who tried to attack the tribes, but they were too small to do great in their company. Disagreeing with clans, they were the outcasts of the desert. What Enemy would have caused this downfall?

Men of the city up north — Gondor, she thought it was called, and its habitants Gondorians or descendants of Numenoreans — did not often stray this far. They could have spotted the large troops the Gondorians usually had before siege, anyway.

She sat down on the sand. As the flames met the grains they extinguished, unable to gain control of the desert. She smiled to herself: that was the spirit of the Haradrim. Worthless people would not undertread them…

So that would mean stranger people would have done this. Great magickers of some sort, to have destroyed the great warriors of Haradrim, including -- she didn't want to think.

She started looking around for clues that might help in this mystery, this unsolvable entangle. Muttering a short "charm" to keep herself from being harmed by anything unnatural, she started prodding around the ashes and the half-burned objects. Here was a chest that the leader of the Serpent clan had been carrying, full of scorched battle armor and a spare scimitar. (Haradrim kept weapons to their sides all the time, in case of a hasty assault.) Here was a vial… Empty… She sniffed it slightly and drew back, her nose crinkling. She never had liked the Hawk clan's remedies and healing herbs.

_Oh, by Umbar._ she thought vaguely as she uncovered something. Someone, to be exact.

What was it? She had never laid eyes upon like this one before. The being - a male by the appearence of him - had the hair colour of the golden sun, and his wide, empty eyes were the color of the sky. His ears were pointed into an angle that fascinated her. He wore strange clothing, a little like the clothing of the Gondorians, and he carried what seemed to be the remains of the bow. He was fair; fairer than the most of the Haradrim, even in his burnt state.

Avoiding contact with the body -- touching a corpse was bad luck -- she looked at the remains of the bow. Pity it had not been saved. It would have been a fine weapon.

But first things first. She could not let little trinkets trouble her like this. She once more looked and memorized the figure's face and body. He would have been one of those who had attacked. At least she hoped so. If he had been the only one, the rest of his kind would be as powerful as he. And if one could destroy seventy strong warriors, what could hundreds do?

The rest had fled, probably, leaving the dead with the dead as the Haradrim did. She looked around to see if she could see any strange tracks: none, but for hers. She felt a twinge of fear: these beings were more powerful than she had first thought. They had covered their foot tracks in seconds, or perhaps not even left any on the ground.

A sudden green flash drew her eyes. It was a mark of some sort, over his scorched cape. It was a brooch in the shape of a leaf, and it was crafted by emerald and silver. It was old by its looks, and had a strange symbol upon it.

She drew back. This could be a trick of some sort, and she froze. After moments of tense waiting, she dared to move again. She had a clear idea who these attackers were. They were called Elves. She remembered the time she had heard about them, from her father's brother…

_"They are wizards of some sort. Most have the hair colour of the sun and eyes of many different hues. They walk upon the ground like shadows, for there are no tracks made by them. They are deceivers; they have left and joined the Dark Eye over the long years. They are not to be trusted, and to be killed immediately. But they are great wizards, and they live forever, or so it is that I hear._

"Nobody knows where they live, at least not the Haradrim. It is rumored they live up northwest, in the great tree-places called forests. They are the sworn enemies of the Lord of Dark Eye and us." 

_Sworn enemies._ Of course… They had done this to them.

Gritting her teeth, she thought quickly. It was her duty to pay back the lives that had been taken. _Northwest._ She would go there and take revenge on her clan, her family and the Haradrim. It was only right she would do that. It was actually the place of a son or a male relative to do the revenge-taking, but she was the only one for leagues around. Fate's hands had led her into this. What should be shall be.

She bit her lips, trying not to let tears drop. It was harder than when she had trained. She and the others had been beaten with sticks, and they were not to cry. If they were, more pain would follow. Most had quickly learnt to control their tears. She felt silly, so unlike a Haradrim, that she felt angry at herself and forced herself to stop.

She started looking around for supplies she could pack. She had all her weapons and her war-clothes on, hair disguised to make her look like a boy. After rummaging for a long hour she found the most of the unspoiled food, hiding in the ruins like gems. Most were dried food of some sort, although she found a rare treasure of slightly sandy - but still edible - meat and gritty bread that was eaten in long marches.

She looked around for anything that might be useful in her travels. Nothing other than the food. Horses were not used by the Haradrim, and the Mumakil were far, far away, too far away to be in any use to her. She would have to make do with walking. After all, why not, she had marched longer than this before. She could surely do it. Surely...

Suddenly angry and more bewildered than ever, she slashed at the Elf's face with her glaive, causing it to bleed even more. That moment she didn't care if she touched the dead; she kicked him until all her anger was gone. After her anger spasm, the body was a sore sight: scabs and scars appeared over the already burnt skin, and parts of the body -- fingers, a foot -- had been violently cut off and dark blood was flowing into a puddle. Now the beautiful features were not evident at all, and her lips curled. He had been the first one to recieve the end of her anger.

She howled, like a desert wolf, into the cruel sun. It was her war cry. Her golden-amber eyes flashed dangerously, and her dark hair flew. The howl was full of anger and sadness, of oath and honour. It had only struck her then that what had happened had happened.

_The one who has command of the Elven-traitors will die,_ she, who was so fittingly called Wolf, as she both had the spirit of one and was of the Desert Wolf Clan, snarled. _ I will kill them all! _

To Be Continued  



	3. Chapter Two: Wolf on the Hill

Chapter Two — Wolf on the Hill

_You have to learn the rules of the game. And then you have to play better than anyone else._

-Albert Einstein

_Step. Step. Step. Another step. Another step. On, on, on. _The girl involuntarily took another step, one of thousands. _Step. Step. Step. _ She couldn't give up now. She had put herself on short ration, just enough for her to retain her strength. She slept under the stars by night — which was not comfortable, as the temperature was less than cool despite the desert heat in the day — and cut sparse desert plants' roots for water. The girl knew that hunting for desert animals would be useless, as she did not have fire to cook them. Raw meat was the last resource she wanted to get to, anyway. She hated how blood poured out when she sunk her teeth into it.

Finally, she sunk down onto the sand for a brief rest. She knew this was disobeying the rules of the military but she did not care for now. Nor did it matter that it might bring some serious outlook to herself, as she might pass out without the forced movement of her body. She had been walking straight for four days, now. She had kept track by the sun and the stars.

She didn't exactly know what she would do, she reflected as she got up unwillingly and forced herself to, once again, stride with her long steps. She knew the Elf-glades were somewhere north, farther north than the blasted city of Gondor. She would have to force some information out of a scraggly Human-rat before she got herself lost and in danger. That would be easy.

The girl wondered if the rest of the clans had realized that the troop was dead. _Probably,_ she decided, _ they will not realize for another couple of days or so. _The troop's leader often sent messages back to the clans' posts by trained hawks, to let them know about the news. The hawks were fast, but not too fast. She was not sure if they had been burned, as with the others, but she had not seen a dark, circling figure in the relentless sky.

_Step. Step. Step. On. On. On. _ She was growing irritated by the unchanging rhythm of the pace, but she was used to it, and did not complain. Her determination for a sweet revenge drove her on. On, on, on. She was going onward.

It was nearly nightfall, and she felt, rather than saw, the sunset. The desert was cooling down rapidly without the red sun to provide it warmth, and even now the stars were coming out. So were animals, of all shapes and sizes. There was a desert owl now, and far away a fox yelped.

The girl knew that it was dangerous to sleep just on the ground like this. She would have to provide some sort of shelter. With keen, slightly lustful eyes, she turned around, hoping to see something that would provide as a shelter. Nothing, except for some cactuses.

She had been under training about this, she knew. She was to calm if she could not find any shelter she could sleep in, and go into a very light sleep, keeping her weapons out. If necessary, she was to light a fire, but she did not have any fire-sticks.

Keeping that in mind, she suddenly shivered. The sun and the long, unaccustomed march - longer than the ones she had done in the troops - had driven her to sweat more than she did, and she felt cold and wet at the same time: not a very good combination. She stripped her outer garments quickly, got a cloth rag she had picked up from the fire, and wiped herself, hoping she would not get a fever or a disease that would hinder her journey. She somehow felt that the people who had died were counting on her. Counting on her to make the move that would bring glory and triumph, or at least justice.

The girl found a cactus, cut open one of its bloodlines, and got some water to flow into her water bag. Trying not to get prickled by the needles, she muttered a - what the soothsayers of the clans called "spell," yet it never worked - against any scorpions or rattlesnakes that could come by. Although she had the antidote in her inner belt, she couldn't be too sure.

She got settled on the cactus. She did not remove any of her garments - except for her cloak, which she used for a blanket, and a small rag from her pocket, which she folded up to use as a pillow. She dared not to remove her heavy boots, for in case that something would bite her unprotected feet or crawl into her boots.

Finally, murmuring a long-forgotten song only half in memory, and stroking a gold chain around her neck - the only thing she really had in value, except for her glaive and her sword - she closed her eyes and willed herself to the place where dreams were born. It did not take much effort.

_"Hanal, what are you trying to ask me?" she laughed. Hanal had been her only friend since childhood. Loud, fun-loving, and rather proud of his swordfighting skills, he was another one the troop had taken as a promising pupil._

Hanal's grin was faded, however. A serious glint creeped into his coal black eyes, and he was - fidgeting, a little. A thing that he did when he was nervous. She should know. She was his best friend. "Wolf," he said, calling her by her nickname, "you know we are both of age."

"Yes..." She had a feeling of dread.

"I -" Words stumbled in his throat; they never had. The girl knew something was going to happen. They always did. Friendship was always messed up this way.

"I wanted to ask you, would you be my bethrothed?"

She had expected it for sometime. She had heard other women gossiping, some disapprovingly, others delighted. Something to do with marriage or whatsoever. Although she had knew what was going to happen, her cheek felt on fire, and she found she couldn't meet Hanal's eyes. Another girly trait, she thought. I'm turning weaker every second!

Did she love Hanal? She supposed so. It was different to make out Hanal's -- personality. It was like water: this way one second, that way another. But did she love him?

She fled. "No." The word grasped. "I won't. I do not want to be bethroed, ever. It's not against you..." Hanal's eyes were hurt. "I just -"

She had fled. The first time. 

The girl woke up suddenly. Something - someone - was watching her intently. Opening her eyes and thankful that she had had her glaive in her hand, she slowly turned her head, looking about. What could it be...?

A wolf. It was a slightly scraggly, yet handsome, beast, powerfully built with shaggy grey fur and determined silver eyes. It had come from the north, wondering far south for some game, for it had been chased out of the forests. Scars on the wolf showed her that it was a rebel of the pack, but from the dignified stance of it, she guessed that it had been a leader of the pack, once. Although the girl was known to be like a wolf, she had never met one personally, and knew they were dangerous creatures. One lunge and she could be dead: they were creatures of the night, their silver or golden eyes glistening in the moonlight and howling away at the moon. The only thing she knew close to it were their cousins, the coyotes and the desert foxes.

The girl and the wolf stared at each other for a long moment. Golden - amber eyes of the Haradrim met the silver eyes of the wolf relentlessly, sharing secrets and dreams yet both were unaware of it.

Finally the contact broke, and the wolf, growling at her, circled around her. He had been starving almost for four days, and his clan had chased him out, for an unjust reason that most wolves rarely followed. Ungrateful one - the one with the broken fang - had rebelled against him. But his memories ebbed away into the past, and the present came back to him. He must have food. This girl was alone, and perhaps she would be easy prey...

The girl took the growl as a warning. And she stood slowly, showing the wolf her full height. It did not matter. The wolf was a big one, coming nearly to her belt line. But she was not afraid. She rarely was.

After one silent moment wolf and girl stared at each other once more.

Then: something in both's head clicked, and they warily back up, and the wolf disappeared into the shadows. Somehow, in their eyes, both knew the other was not a foe. The girl relaxed and heard the wolf run. It was a powerful rhythm that thumped the ground.

Pity the wolf had run. She could have fed him something. Then the absurdity of the idea hit her. It was a wild wolf. Anything wild was both her friend and her enemy. Anything that wanted to kill her was a foe. Thus the wolf was her foe. But something went through all these lessons she had learned back in time, and something told her that the wolf would not harm her, as long as she would not harm him.

The wolf howled. Following her instincts, she wanted to howl, but she did not. All tiredness gone, she suddenly packed her belongings and started to walk north, following the stars, swearing still she would follow revenge. Something had woken up inside her; a fiercer light in her eyes.


	4. Chapter Three: Rebellion

Chapter Three - Rebellion 

_"The rebel can never find peace. He knows what is good and, despite himself, does evil. The value which supports him is never given to him once and for all."_

-Albert Camus 

At once the girl found the nighttime march to be cool and satisfying. The temperatures were certainly lower, and with her cloak she could stay warm if she wanted to. She found many advantages to the time of this march: for instance, she could always defend herself if an animal was to meet her; she was not asleep and vulnerable. So she marched on north, feeling vaguely pleased with herself, despite the drowsiness from lack of sleep. But that was all right; she was used to longer marches than this.

She was pleased, that is, until she met the morning.

As the bloody red sun rose -- the girl remembered the superstition that a bloody morning meant that blood had been spilled last night, and wondered who had been the victim this time -- the desert warmed up. Most animals had retreated to their shadows and cool shelters before dawn, but even now lizards, with their shining, reflective skin, crawled under the rocks.

The girl tried sleeping for a while, but it was an extreme change after sleeping in the cooler temperature of the night, and found that she was sweating. She tried stripping off her cloak and her outer clothes, but no luck. Although it was winter — the girl did not know that, however — up north, the Southern lands were not affected and stayed as hot as summer of the North (no, _hotter_ than summer of the North). It was quite uncomfortable, but the girl was used to a lack of sleep for as long as two days, so she did not mind so much.

She had been trained not to think of other things — in other words, daydream — in the Harad training methods, but she often disobeyed the "rule." As she went striding on she thought of the wolf last night, and wondered if he had only been a dream.

_The wolf's name was unknown, but he was called Filtiarn in the Common Tongue. Filtiarn: a fitting name, as it meant "Lord of Wolves." So he looked like a lord among wolves: his fur was a majestic silver, nearing toward white yet black at the same time, and his gray-amber eyes seemed to know more than a simple animal should. But wolves are more humane than most think. Wolves are, in fact, more humane than some Humans. For not all predatory animals are born to mindlessly kill. Such are wolves. Yet along the way a young wolf gets lost on the track._

Filtiarn's past was hidden to him. The first thing he remembers, he says, is the cold morning rain drenching him. A series of brief images follow thus: a bloody sun hanging between the earth and the sky, a star above his head, a blue-winged bird flying without fear, a pair of dark eyes that might have belonged to one of his pack's. But he cannot remember, for his original pack was gone. The only one who had cared for him was an old female - Otsanda her name was. She-wolf._ But she is gone now._

Filtiarn does not remember this clearly. Like all animals of the wilderness he dwells in the present, neither the past nor the future. He relys on his senses to defend him, and every wolf - other than the ones in one's pack - is expected to fight for his or her own life. Filtiarn grows and one by one, under his proud leading, he gets a pack to love and care for, but not a mate. Not yet. So the days go by.

The wolf shakes his head. He is hot and his fur itches. He was not made for the desert. He longs to go back to the woodlands of the North, but he cannot. He is an outcast there; and others will attack if he dares to tread beyond his now newly claimed territories. He does not like it here.

He has hunted and gulped down several desert hares. He has tried eating the scaly things on the rocks, but they taste horrible. He has also seen his cousins, and he thinks they look very strange, and did not approach them but looked at them warily. Their long ears, short reddish hair,and slightly smaller bodies seemed humorous to him, at first, for they looked like untrained, burned younglings. Now he does not blame them. The cruel sun is too hot when it should be colder, a lot colder, up north. It is hotter than the summer up north! He sweats and wishes his coat of fur was lighter.

The wolf tries to go back to his regular routine. But he cannot do so for two reasons. One, he is unused to the desert. Two, the image of the Human disrupts him often.

By its smell and appearence the two-legger had been a female, one who is growing up, one who is neither an adult or a child, but quickly passing into adulthood. But it had formed the stance of an adult.

Then he remembers: it had been alone. Then it must mean it had been an outcast, like him.

There was something in the girl's eyes and the girl's pose that it was one of his pack. Then he shakes off the feeling, feeling very irritated with himself. A two-legger has never been of any use or interest to the four-leggers. It had always been so, except for the wondering Elves who sometimes pass by. But they, too, have not been seen in Filtiarn's life. Not yet.

His throat is parched. He must have water.

All those memories must have overwhelmed him. Other than the places he've been and recent memories, and his pack, wolves do not visit the past. This wolf feels uneasy. He has dwelled in the past more than he feels comfortable with. It is time to live in the present, he feels, and lets his senses take over until he is nothing but another wild, wandering wolf.

_There are - had been - seven, including himself, in the pack. Adalwolfa, the white-haired one, who is not Filtiarn's mate but assums the position of the head female. Nuntis, the cheerful one, the scout, who has lively, dancing golden eyes. Tala, the other female, the mate of Nuntis. Chann and Convel, the only pups of the pack, and twins at that, of Nuntis and Tala. And finally: Randale._

Randale is the traitorous one. Filtiarn only accepted him because he was a good fighter, and he was intelligent. He also seemed very loyal, but that was not his purpose for coming here.

Randale is a black wolf, from the East. He is beautiful, and he knows that, too. His face is unmarked save for a long scar going down from left eye to his snout, and one of his sharp fangs are broken, probably an old war wound.

Randale has never been seen in the forest before. So when he wanted to approach the pack, the pack had many a discussion over him. But finally they decided they would let him in, as the lowest rank. He took this cheerfully, yet he was a somber, unblinking wolf.

Filtiarn still felt uneasy about him. He paces him each day, and snarls at him whenever he makes a charge at ranks. For wolves the leader is the leader, unless others prove him wrong in a just fight. That was what Filtiarn was waiting for, perhaps. Randale never made a move to fight, but it seemed so.

So when Randale snarls at him and knocks him down one day, he is surprised.

They fight - clawing each other, rolling on the ground, snarling and biting. The pack watches. They know they must not interfere, even the pups.

Filtiarn suddenly feels that something is not right with Randale. He is too strong for an wolf. What is he? Randale manages to overtake him, and Filtiarn retreats, although only after throwing him a cold glance. His proud tail unusually down and between his legs, he limps away. For now Randale is the leader of the pack.

Then Randale leads the pack to the East. He says something about their maker, their creator. The other wolves are afraid. They do not like what they are feeling: a sense of old evil. But all of them are too ignorant of the old evil, save for the presence in their stomaches.

At the boundary Randale chases him off. You are now not one of our pack, he snarls._ They engage another fight, but with that inhumane strength Randale beats Filtiarn. Filtiarn, secondly humiliated, now limps off again. Leaving them for a while, Randale chases Filtiarn on and on, for days and days, until they get to the hot lands with no forests and not enough animals. He is an outcast._

The wolf woke suddenly. He remembered, and he hated. But old deeds were old deeds, and he did not intend to set revenge against Randale. Yet in his stomach he felt an old evil he cannot put a name to. He felt his pack is in danger. But the two-legger he had seen was in danger, too, and he was drawn to her like a moth to a flame. He felt something strange, once again, that the girl had been one of his pack.

_What is Happening of the Fellowship_

It had all been decided: the Ring-Bearer, along with eight more companions, called the Fellowship of the Ring, would set out for the quest to destroy the One Ring of Doom.

It had been the eleventh day since they had left the Elf-haven, and Frodo and Sam felt themselves missing the soft beds already. They were now nearing Hollin.

The Fellowship was getting to know each other slowly, other than the already-made friendships: Merry and Pippin found Boromir quite fun; the Hobbits began to trust Aragorn more and more; Legolas was setting himself. _It is the Hobbits,_ Gandalf reflected as they hiked over a hill, _who are making it work. Just as the Ring-Bearer is a Hobbit. _By now Frodo had returned to his top health, yet he still blanched whenever Nazguls were mentioned, or thought of.

There were quite a few strains between the Fellowship as well, however. For instance Aragorn and Boromir avoided each other, and so did Legolas and Gimli. Boromir did not trust Elves, while Gimli had a profound disliking for them. So it was not perfect, but it was acceptable.

Now they were traveling over hilly lands of Hollin. Gandalf was in front, with his grey hair, robes, and pointy hat, his right hand ever-clutching his staff. An Elvin sword lay beneath his robes, but the Hobbits did not know so much, save Frodo. Behind Gandalf came Frodo, lost in his deep thoughts. He already seemed to have worry lines etched on his face, and his green-blue eyes were faraway.

Behind Frodo paced Legolas. He did not strain to make a conversation; rather, he stayed silent like most of them. Behind Legolas came Merry and Pippin, who was once more chattering among themselves, then Gimli. Gimli was not looking uncomfortable, as he had gone over many journeys. 

Behind Boromir came, his round shield buckled over his shoulder, and at last Aragorn, his silver eyes clouded for the time being, strided with his long steps. They were all thinking about the days ahead, while some preferred not to as they frightened them, a little. Those were turblent days; full of danger and darkness. It was well that the Fellowship had eight hands (swords, bows, and axes) to help the Ring-Bearer. He would need it.

At night they camped, but dared not lit a fire yet. "I do not like the sense of the place," Aragorn murmured quietly. "It is too quiet here. I feel a forboding presence that had not been here before."

They all stayed strangely silent after that, for in fear of the unknown. As Gimli took the first watch for the night, and the rest settled into sleep or at least prepared for it, they heard the wild cry of wolves somewhere in the distance.

  



	5. Chapter Four: Of What Is and What Is Not

Chapter Four — Of What Is and What Is Not 

_ Trust the instinct to the end, though you can render no reason._

-Ralph Waldo Emerson 

It had been the eleventh day since the girl had vowed for revenge. Or had it been twelve, or ten? By her steady march she had traveled up north far — in fact, farther than she had ever gone. She had heard of the lands up north from the warriors who had traveled and tried to attack the great White City of the accursed Numenoreans.

According to them the lands there were supposed to be unlike anything of the desert, except for some of the animals like the fox, the birds, the wolf, and the hares. It was supposed to be not as hot, but sometimes so cold that some warriors died from it. Lots of tall trees were supposed to grow in bunches, even as big as nations. Strange animals were to roam about, and danger lay everywhere. There was no sand, but rather fresh, greener grass, and not the brown, dull grass of the desert.

Even now she could see the faint, green borderlands of the northern lands and the desert. It seemed to merge together, the green of the lands and the orange of the desert, and in the middle some brownness lay. The girl had heard of them, as well: the grasslands and the mountains. She could see the mountains just now: they already filled her with awe; standing there tall, proud, and relentless.

By now the provisions taken from the ashes were running low, and the girl had to hunt, as she wasn't sure if she could find satisfactory food up north. Hares, birds, even salamanders, which weren't her favorite… She hunted just enough for her to eat each day, and saved the rest of the meat for later. Although the raw meat was bloody and slightly revolting, she was used to it already and gnawed on a hare leg. Raw or cooked, she needed nutrition and energy to continue her journey.

Of course there were some days when she wished she never had thought of the "great" idea of revenge. When she did wish it, she thought of the warriors of Harad lying there, their eyes glazed and burns scarring their faces. That was enough to make her mad, and so she continued, surviving on hatred.

On the nineteenth day — or the eighteenth or the twentieth — she arrived at the grasslands; the mark of the beginning of the northern lands and the country of the Numenoreans.

Like a wolf she circled around the place where desert met the grasslands warily, looking at the unknown territories beyond. Would she see trees as wide as fifteen men across and so tall that they reached into the heavens? Would she find monsters of all kinds? What would she do if she were met with a host of Numenoreans? Where did the Elves' hiding places lie?

It couldn't be more dangerous than the chimera of the desert, which hunted the people Harad and plagued villages occasionally in a century, with its mixed up body parts, and would not go back into its lair until a virgin had been sacrificed, or a bard played the Ancient Song. Murmuring a short prayer to the god of defense war and god of wanderers and warriors, she crossed the border, feeling the grass tickling her beneath her robes.

The wolf ever stalked her gently, not letting her sense her presence or smell it. Instead he purposely lagged behind her some fifteen leagues, as the crow flew. Even so, with his keen sense of smell he could sniff her out. What drove him to follow the stupid two-legger was a mystery — why, she couldn't run as fast as doe and her fangs were too small — but something warmed inside him when he thought of her. She felt like his pack, and since he had lost his original pack and his other pack to that traitor wolf, he would protect the Human. It wasn't that he had been "tamed" like the dogs. He would never be tamed. Idiot dogs, they always fawned at the stupid two-leggers. Never him. _He_ might follow the girl two-legger around, but never show true affection like those — dogs.

The wolf whined again as the hot sand blistered his paws, yet they gradually grew better at bearing the heat. Note to self: never come to the desert once more.

A hawk circled above. Was it a hawk? Or was it a crow? The wolf looked up into the sky, feeling curiously drawn to the dark bird, squinting his gray, slanted eyes as he looked up. Even as he caught sight of the bird, the bird vanished.

The wolf blinked. Vanished? This was against all his instincts. Birds did not just blink out against the sky; it was against the laws of nature.

But magick wasn't nature…. Magick meddled with nature. Magick was not supposed to be but belonged. The wolf knew naught of magick, but had seen it before. It was an aura he got uncomfortable in; never really relaxed.

Did he ever relax? Nah.

The wolf grinned at this thought and pawed on. Onward, toward his one-member pack.

The wolf hesitated. He could smell the scent of grass and men where the two-legger wolf was headed. This was bad. Very bad. She was heading north, exactly the place he had been banished from. Would he cross the line? For several minutes he stood there, cocking his head. Two thoughts rammed against each other — which wasn't common for a normal wolf, but then he was more than a normal wolf — and he stood there.

_Why was he even following the Human around? Nothing good ever came from Humans. And how did he know she was his pack?_

He just knew. He trusted his instincts, did he not? He had nothing to lose but his life. If he did not follow he would lose his honor against the pack.

Randale could kill him!

He would not. This thought echoed off uncertainly. _I can easily evade him. I know places he does not. I will survive._

Life and honor. Life and honor.

What did he know? The wolf cocked his head again, and grinned in the way only wolves could grin. He was choosing honor. He stepped over and made his journey over the grasslands, to the realm of Men and Nature.

One good thing could come off of this for sure. He wasn't so hot anymore. _Ah, this is now the temperature I like better! _

Randale sniffed the air with interest. From the since Filtarin had seen him last, he had changed quite considerably: for one thing, he was bigger. _A lot bigger._ Rowdy tufts of dark brown hair grew, and his body was muscular and strong. He had grown into the figure he had always wanted to become — the leader of a pack.

He had already been a leader of the pack. But that had not been enough. He had met a two-legger who could speak with him, and he had agreed to fulfill his service in exchange of leadership among his race. It had worked out well. He lured others into the Tower, and they were transformed, like him, and their minds were twisted. Randale had not gotten his mind torn from him; his mind was already twisted and revolting. He was more than just a wolf. He was a — the leader of — the Wolves of Isengard.

He caught the scent of many things — for instance, some of the black birds the Maia used as spies. Spies, indeed. Bah. What use were those pitiful, weak creatures? They could only fly with their small black wings and caw shrilly at any enemies. Wolves were far more superior. That was exactly why he was at the head of them.

He caught more scents that he were not interested in — dying trees, burning fumes, the not-so-pleasant smell of Orcs… There. What was it? He burrowed his senses far down, deeper and deeper.

He couldn't miss it now. It was the scent of a wolf. The wolf he had banished.

That wolf, with some proper instructions and head-barges, could be changed into a decent Wolf of Isengard. But no — he was too headstrong; he was not a normal wolf. His thoughts couldn't be changed. Perhaps the Wizard could help him break his mind, but Randale preferred to do it alone.

He would hunt down Filtiarn… but not tonight. He had more important chases to lead.

_ The desert sun shone with warmth — it was one of the cooler days. The girl sat down near the clay houses. The clay houses did not look primitive — rather, more fanciful, as it had been painted and decorated, and larger than most. The clay kept the houses cool by day and warm by night. Some of the people of Harad were nomads, however, always wondering here and forth. And so was the girl's clan — they were traveling northeast to be closer to the realm of the Dark Lord. Up in Umbar the lords ruled with dignity, but now they had made an alliance with the Dark Lord. Who knew, he could be more powerful._

But only the soldiers were really aware. Although the others were aware of this fact, they treated it with a cool distance, though they were quite ready to go into battle if provoked. So the best warriors traveled up northeast and back, often going on small battles before they returned.

The Dark Lord had promised them peace, wealth, and power beyond all of the races, including the detested — but never seen — Elves and the accursed Numenoreans, who had attacked them over and over. The Numenoreans would be killed or enslaved, and the northern and western lands would be free for the Harad people to explore.

The girl looked young, not much older than perhaps seven or eight years old. But her face held a bitterness that no child should have held, a bitterness of a person who had lived long harsh years. To the girl she might have been as well as forty something.

She did not watch the other children at play — at mock battles and house playing. Even if she had been accepted into the crowd, she would not have played at those things anyway. She already counted herself as an adult, and she acted like one: somber and silent.

The adults did not know what to think of her. When the girl got into one of her rages, she could not be stopped, and finally the council of elders and leaders decided that she would be good as a warrior. But they never spoke of this to her, and silently bypassed her. Time would come soon when she would have to be trained professionally, other than the basic training that all the children got.

The society of Harad was divided so it would work for the best. At the lowest level there were the slaves and the servants. Nobody looked twice at them, but nobody mistreated them either. Although they might be cruel in battle, they were never cruel to the helpless.

The Harad kept some livestock: mumakil, for one. The Mumakil — warrior Oliphaunts — were captured and bred separately from the rest of the Oliphaunts, who were used for the scarce farming, building, and other chores.

The girl was watching the Mumakil pen. She loved to watch them. The strong, proud, immense creatures always fought when they first came into the Harad villages, but they calmed down after a few weeks. The toughest ones always took about several moons for them to calm and be tamed, but it was worth it, for they made the best warriors.

This particular Mumakil was a young one — a strong one, as well. Several scars showed up on its trunk and floppy ears, revealing that it was prone to fighting. The ivory tusks were not to their full length yet, which meant good for the warriors of Harad. The younger the Oliphaunt was, the better. For one thing they lived longer, and for the other they were stronger and more liable to be trained easily.

The trainers bound down the Mumakil with ropes and other weapons. "He's a new one!" one of them called out. "Just arrived from outside the borders. They say they found him alone. Must have strayed from the rest of the pack." By "they" he meant the Oliphaunt catchers. To be an Oliphant catcher meant danger and even possibly death from the crunching feet of the wild beasts, but they were greatly respected.

"Watch out!" one of the men shouted, as the Mumakil broke free of the ropes. That was unusual, as the ropes were very tight and strong, but it wasn't if it hadn't happened before. The Mumakil roared with rage, and he proceeded to march and crunch some of the materials nearby.

"Quick, where are the sleeping herbs?" the leader, Scyon, shouted. Scyon was an experienced trainer — the best the Haradrim of the south had ever seen — and he was used to these kinds of events. As one of the apprentices ran to him with a bag full of the sleeping herbs, Scyon grabbed it and jumped onto the Mumakil, using the wrinkles on its body as footholds. His painted face — with black arrows, red dots and yellow staccatos — was grim, but it was calm.

The Mumakil screamed again, and many people stopped their daily tasks to watch. It was not that a Mumakil escaped the ropes every day a new Oliphaunt came in. Scyon got closer and closer to the head of the Oliphaunt, and finally he opened the bag of the sleeping herbs, tying it quickly around the Mumakil's ears. He jumped off quickly — for the sleeping herbs were powerful — and watched to see if it had the desired effect.

It did. The Mumakil swayed for a couple of seconds, its black eyes blinking, and then several moments later, it fell to the ground with a loud crash. Scyon closed the bag and untied it from the Mumakil, and nodded as the others bound it with ropes. They could not move the Mumakil if they wanted to. People cheered for Scyon if it had been a sport, and Scyon, nodding his grim face, walked back into his tent.

After the training the Mumakil would be taught the military tactics, and after it had grown used to one rider a carriage would be set on him. After that, he would be tested out in a mock battle. If he proved to be useful, he was painted with the red marks of the Mumakil and continued the harder part of the training. If he did not, he was either carried to the regular Oliphaunt pens or killed for meat (which was rare, but it had happened in droughts).

The girl had been watching this silently. Suddenly feeling the urge to cry, she ran into her hut barefeet, her dark locks flying behind her. The Mumakil reminded of herself, somehow.

She must not cry. She must not cry. 

The girl stopped briefly in her tracks. She wondered if that Mumakil was alive now. Then she resumed walking on the grasslands, still wondering if that Mumakil would like to eat some of this grass now.

At night she sang herself to sleep, a habit that was frowned upon. But her mother had done the same to her, when she had been younger — far younger, and before she had thought it was too childish — and slowly she sang. Her voice was husky and it was unused to singing, but she did so anyway.

_"they just do not heed the things and when one life is quenched  
they just weep with sorrow  
but they also weep with fear of what may come  
death may come to them so they are afraid  
but do they not understand they should celebrate instead  
celebrate and remember the memories of the one who  
passed away over the flame and the earth and the wind and the ocean  
and met light and darkness and the shadows in between  
do they not understand that in the end everything is different  
and nothing  
is the same do they not  
no they do not yet a small part of them still does  
but it is too small so they only weep  
they only remember a shadow of  
the true losses they have lost forever…"_

It was only a small part of a song that was remembered scarcely among the people of Harad. It was rumored that it had passed down from the Numenoreans, and perhaps it had, but the calm, bittersweet tune calmed her frazzling nerves.

The night was colder than she had expected, and she covered herself in blankets, and kept all her outer clothes on. She curled herself into a ball and she slept lightly. She didn't know what had brought her memory to that tune. Something just had.


	6. Chapter Five: Winter's Arrival

Chapter Five - Winter's Arrival 

_In comradeship is danger countered best._

- Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

The Fellowship was battered, cold, wet, and miserable. Traveling through blizzards on top of Mount Cahadras was no small task, and save for their own body warmth - almost gone now - and the small fire that Gandalf had ventured to make, there was no warmth. Although Legolas did not seem to mind the snow, and Gandalf only slightly, the rest of the Fellowship certainly did. Even Aragorn, who had been a Ranger in the Wilderness for years, found himself shivering and wishing himself back in the warm, comfortable halls of Rivendell.

Gandalf watched the Fellowship getting more tired and drowsy and handed around the flask of _miruvor_ from Rivendell. Aragorn looked at Gandalf. "You have brought _miruvor?_"

Gandalf smiled slightly. His grey beard was slightly frosted with snow and the cold. "A wizard is always prepared." Aragorn just shook his head and grinned a little.

The flask was passed around the members of the Fellowship. As each one drunk the Elven drink their body seemed to warm a little, and their spirits rise. The fire seemed more merry and the cold more bearable, as well. The Hobbits now had woken up more when they had been passed the drink, and Pippin and Merry's grins were back on, if a little tired and weary.

"What is this drink?" Frodo asked, as he felt his body warm. He opened his eyes, which had felt so heavy only a few moments before, wider.

"It is _miruvor,_ the drink of the Elves," Gandalf replied. "From Rivendell. You have experienced its effects; it warms the body and - perhaps - rises the spirits. Very useful for traveling on the road." He closed the cap on the flask as it came back around him. "That is enough for tonight."

As they had to rest and could not go on under the harsh conditions of the blizzard, the Fellowship rested. Some slept while others watched, and vise versa. Aragorn and Gandalf was up, still discussing. Both had worried expressions on their faces.

"So we have come your way, Aragorn," Gandalf acknowledged. "The Pass of Cahadras."

"Yes," the other man sighed. "So it is. I have traveled this path but a several times, and then it seemed a safe choice. But I have never seen blizzards this strong before. Yet it might only be a coincidence."

"Yet even as we speak Saruman might be watching over the Pass. And as our friend Gimli stated - " he nodded to the sleeping Dwarf who had grudgingly fallen asleep, despite his protests, "it might be Cahadras' will and evil which is causing all this."

"Perhaps. But this is better than the Mines of Moria. I tell you, Gandalf, I have passed there once, and I do not like the way."

"Yes," Gandalf murmured silently. "You have been captured by the Enemy."

"I fear that the rest of the Mines have been taken by the Enemy. Perhaps the Dwarves defeated them and the Orcs retreated to the shadows. But there is an evil there I can sense, Mithrandir. I still do not advise the way."

"If Cahadras would be blocked, what would be our choice?" Gandalf asked softly.

"I am still musing over that," Aragorn frowned. "I would hope that we can all go through Cahadras safely, without any harm. But even not being seen by the Enemy is too much to hope for, it seems. One other way to Lothlorien other than the Mines and the Pass would be the Gap of Rohan. But, alas, that takes us too close to Isengard."

"I fear so. Saruman already knows of our presence, with the _crebain_ spies. And perhaps he has more that we do not know of. Cahadras might even be under his power, but I doubt that strongly. We already know that many Orcs are under his power, yet less than those under the One Eye's. Yet no Orc would venture Cahadras willingly. There would be a spy on land who would be under his powers."

"Horses do not willingly come to his hand. Wolves, perhaps?"

"Perhaps, Aragorn. There have been reports of wolves being forced under Saruman's power and treachery, evolving into greater beasts. They are called Wargs. I am sure you know, from the years you were in Rohan?"

"Yes, but they were not so many, and did not openly perceive that they were under Saruman's orders. A few villages, not so far away from Edoras, were attacked, but only reports of Wargs remained. Regular wolves are more common. I have fought Wargs once or twice... But..."

A curious expression came over the Ranger's face, an almost anguished, bitter look lay there. He clenched his fists briefly and let them loose. It was an old pain, but it still ached him, along with his mother's death.

"The wolves have killed your father," Gandalf murmured knowingly.

"Yes." Aragorn met the Maiar's gaze with some difficulty. "I must admit, _mellon nin,_ it still pains me to think of so. So many deaths..." He shook his head, as to clear it of all sad memories. "But it is not the time to dwell on the past now. We must think of the present."

As the girl traveled farther and farther north it got colder and colder, even far more colder than the nights of the desert. She got used to covering herself with fallen leaves or whatever natural debris she could find, and after a couple of experiments she found that animal fur did the best. She hunted rabbits with her knife, testing her agility and stalking abilities without the help of a bow, and soon enough she became slightly warmer with the rabbit fur for her outer clothing. But it still was not warm enough, and the nights came on much faster. She reckoned that this was ordinary for the Northlands, but she could not keep herself from grumbling.

By now her supplies from the debris of her camp had ran out pretty much, and her clothes were ragged. Despite the icy frigidness, she had cracked open some ice - strange thing it was, but she soon discovered that once melted, it made water - and washed her clothes and herself briefly. It did not do much help, but it had been better than nothing.

She still hunted for prey with her knife, and sometimes she could ignite a little spark with two sticks to warm them, if not cook them. She learned that the small red, bead-like things were bad to eat, at least this time of the weather, and the short, squatty things with a roofed top were to be avoided entirely. She had nibbled on one very colourful one, and had been sick with just that little nibble. That had delayed her traveling for some days.

By now she was completly in foreign territories. She knew she was at least close to the Numenorean city - the White City, it was called in Far Harad - but avoided it by going farther East. She often halted some leagues before a village, wondering whether to enter or not, and did not. She preferred herself the farthest away from civilazation.

Of course, she realized she needed help. Grudgingly she admitted that she could not find the Elf-havens alone by herself. Although a small part of her said that if she wondered for far and long enough she could find them, she could not know if they were one of the Elf-Betrayers' - the ones who had ruined her home as she had known it - or not. But no Humans ventured in her path, and in this time of the weather most seemed to stay home. Only a few men, clad in silver metal armor, rode back and forth, and the girl could sometimes see them like ants. 'Weaklings,' she scoffed at them. Yet even so she questioned if the Harad troops would have done so in this cold, frigid weather. Probably not.

The girl, however, admired the colourful views of the scenery. She had to admit that the Northlands were beautiful, in a strange, exotic way. When she had first stepped here the trees were bare, with only a few scarlet or brown leaves hanging on the tall things. But she had admired the mountains in the distance, looming slightly closer and closer with each far distance she traveled. And the plants! There were a variety of them, and even in the dead-seeming Northlands, some still stayed green. Even so it was a brighter green, a livelier green than the desert's, and she found the colour to be refreshing and found simple delight in it.

The girl traveled on by stars and the clues in the nature, even as she did now. The Eye of the Raven was over there, by the constellation of Mizlan, the Serpent, and south of the Sword Gleam, made of the seven famous stars. At the top, however, unmoving, lay the Heaven's Eye, which always stayed in the same direction and lay in the West.

From night to night she thought that she might have seen wolves around her, but she only clutched her glaive and sword more tightly. No thought came that it might be the Wolf.

This night was colder than the rest before, and the girl wondered why. She looked into the stars for reassurence, but the sky was clouded tonight, and the stars did not shine. Instead, the sky was black - not with just darkness of the night, but with storm clouds - a sight that was rarely seen in the desert. So the girl could not have known what was following.

The wolf froze and looked into the sky. The moon was paling, and the stars brightening suddenly and paling. The clouds were covering the sky; massive clouds. The temperature was dropping rapidly, and the wolf looked worriedly. Although he had thick furs to protect himself, what about the two-legger female wolf (or so he begun to think of her as)? She was a pathetic little creature. She probably couldn't survive. She was different from the two-leggers from the North, who could live.

Filitarn howled. Winter was coming. Winter had already arrived, and it was only waiting to strike its blow.


End file.
